Framed Photographs
by Linaumi
Summary: Tensions between Russia and America have been high ever since the end of the Cold War. It's always been a problem but neither country ever made a move to fix it. Ever since its invention, the camera had been America's obsession. He took pictures of everything and everyone whether they were aware of it or not. It's amazing the moments a camera can capture. It amazes Russia as well.
1. Chapter 1

It was just another completely normal day in a completely normal world. Another completely normal meeting in the same old conference room. But it was still a day Russia always remembered. The meeting was supposed to start soon, but it hadn't yet, and he'd never been gladder.

It was the first world conference of spring, meaning that although the snow had mostly melted, it was still cold enough for most of the countries to ditch their normal clothes in favor for something warmer. Russia, however, was always warm. After all, his daily attire consisted of the thickest coat man has ever known and a just as thick woolen scarf. They were necessities for traversing his own country land.

But this wasn't his country. Sometimes he had to remind himself of that.

Nevertheless, he kept the coat and scarf. He'd be lying if he said the warmer temperature didn't bother him, but the items made him feel somewhat at home.

Many nations, including Russia himself, were just arriving at the conference. They weren't late, but they definitely weren't early either. The feeling could be described as the awkward in-between moment where there's still plenty of time, but not enough to do anything with.

Well, except for America. He always found something to do.

Russia had hoped to avoid him in the short time it took to walk from the front doors to the meeting room. Unfortunately, Russia found him somewhere along the way. He didn't particularly like the exuberant nation, but being on America's good side seemed to mean that he was on the world's good side. If he wasn't friends with America, he wasn't friends with anyone.

He hated America for that.

Well, good thing America didn't seem to have a bad side. Though, the Cold War had gotten awfully messy. It got to the point, Russia remembered, where disagreements were being made for the sake of disagreeing. He remembered the first time America slammed his fist on the table; the first time the country had visibly shown his anger during a World Conference. Of course, Russia had done the same. Yes, the nations had been quite angry with one another. And after…

After?

Where did all that hate go?

Sometimes Russia wondered if he was the only one who bore a grudge. If it wasn't for the lasting anti-Russian sentiment found throughout America's people, he would've believed he was. He never would've caught the way America's lips were tinged with a frown when they spoke; the way his dominant hand subconsciously shaped itself as if it were holding a gun, ready to pull the trigger at any moment. The way America's vibrant blue eyes dulled with ice as he shot Russia silent glances during every meeting. The young nation spoke with Russia the same way he spoke to anyone else: excitedly, passionately, and honestly. To the point of brutality. But, perhaps, that might be what separated Russia from the other nations. America was never honest about his spite.

This made Russia dislike him even more.

He found America hassling England like usual. Well, technically he saw nothing first. As he turned the corner he was greeted with an obnoxiously bright flash along with an equally obnoxious voice.

"Oops, sorry Iggy, I forgot the flash was on."

Russia blinked the spots away. He stood a few feet behind England while America stood pointing a camera to the latter nation's face.

Ever since its invention in 1888, the camera had become America's obsession. Russia had only been in the man's home a small number of times for business expenditures, but it bore a special kind of significance in the his mind simply because of the sheer amount of photographs he saw lying around. They often covered the surface of the coffee table in America's living room in its entirety as well as found in stacks upon his kitchen counters. Desks, shelves, and other furniture of the like were adorned with framed photos; often much more than what was meant to fit on their veneer. Despite all this, America managed to keep his home presentable to the public; however, his room was another matter altogether. Russia had once caught a glimpse of the disaster on a visit to the restroom. Photos practically made up the walls. It was obvious America had long since given up on framing them and trying to place them nicely in favor of using hundreds of tacks and placing them wherever he felt they looked best. America had pictures of rainy days and sunny days. All four seasons could easily be found at a glance; and, of course, there were pictures of every nation America could find. Caught unawares or otherwise, they always found themselves a place on his wall. There were even a few taped to the glass of the large window that stood directly across from the entrance. It was open that day. A thousand small pictures ruffled in greeting to the light breeze and the few birds who had found comfort on the windowsill chirped cheerfully in response to the afternoon light. The scene itself was picturesque. Undoubtedly, if America had saw it he wouldn't spare a moment to grab his camera.

Yes, America took pictures of everything.

"You git!" England groaned, still rubbing his burnt eyes, "Who the hell said you could take my picture? Leave me be!"

"Aww c'mon Iggy, I said I was sorry—" America tried to protest.

"That's not my bleeding name you twit!" England attempted to flash America a dangerous look, but the lights that illuminated the hall blinded his already sensitive eyes even more and he was forced to glare daggers at the ground instead.

"Alright, _Britain_ , I'm sorry," America offered, "I forgot the last pic I took was last night so I had to turn the flash on. Here, let's try again." He raised his camera in preparation.

"What? Hell no! You think I'd let you take my picture after—"

 _Click._

The flash was still on.

"Grah!" England groaned in equal amounts of frustration and surprise. He covered his damaged eyes in order to rest them in a more complete darkness. "You did that on purpose!" He accused. Using his free hand, he made a blind grab in the general direction of America and his camera. Well, he grabbed more for the camera than anything. Needless to say, America easily sidestepped the temporarily blinded nation.

"Woah, hey! Careful this was expensive!" America warned, though his suppressed smirk betrayed his concerned tone, "It's made of the highest tech I can afford!"

"I don't care if it's made of gold! Give it here, I'm going to rip it to shreds!" England squinted between his fingers and made a second, more accurate attempt at grabbing the camera, but America pulled it out of his reach. They continued like that until England was practically trying to climb the taller nation who was taking full advantage of his height and holding the camera just out of the British man's grasp.

England ranted, America laughed, and Russia was thoroughly amused; he even felt like laughing as well.

Finally, when it was apparent to America that England had fully recovered from temporary blindness, America caught England's arm and forced him to stand side-by-side with himself.

"What are you—?" England started but America slung his arm around the other's shoulder and pulled him close. With a quick, fluid motion, America turned his camera towards himself and England and took a photograph.

There was no flash that time.

Immediately after the deed was done America went to view the digital image. After pressing a few buttons he pulled it up and showed the still-confused England. With the camera still raised, Russia was also able to see it clearly.

America took up two-thirds of the photo frame. It was easy to tell that the camera was indeed expensive. The high resolution captured America's deep, cerulean blue eyes almost better than they could look in real life. Russia wasn't sure, but he could've sworn they sparkled like sapphires. Being his photogenic self, of course, America dazzled the camera with his perfect American smile; one that could easily be found on orthodontist ads that promise pre-teens the same look as long as they suffer through braces and other dental procedures. He threw in a wink and probably would've flashed a peace sign if both his hands hadn't been occupied holding both the camera and the British man next to him.

England however, looked like a sack of potatoes caught in the headlights of a car driving on a dirt road.

The photo caught England's face transitioning from anger to surprise with a hint of confusion, resulting in a particularly constipated look. And although the camera had captured his eye color much like it did America's, it didn't do him any good when his eyebrows were furrowed enough to look as if they were supposed to be eyelids. Luckily for him, he had his head tilted back just slightly so his flared nostrils were the center of attention rather than anything else.

It wasn't just a bad picture, it was a horrid one.

"I like this one Iggy," America mused, "Wanna take another?" America's voice snapped England out of his stupor and his face began to turn a bright shade of red. Whether it was out of rage or embarrassment, neither Russia nor America could tell.

"No," he growled, shoving America away, "Get away from me arsehole!" America stumbled away, still wearing the bright smile that was present in the photograph.

"Alright Iggy," America threw his hands up in surrender, "I am away from you."

"You snarky little brat," England seethed, "Delete it."

"What?"

"Delete. The. Picture."

"No!" America held the camera closely in mock protection, all the while his smile never fading.

This set England off.

"Listen here you gormless cock-up," The Englishman fumed, "You think it's funny to take the piss out of me, but I've had enough of this nosey parker business and you _will_ delete that poxy excuse for a photo before I take that manky camera and smash it over that thick head of yours and turn you into even more of a grotty pillock than you already are!" England panted. He stared down at America with his fiercest glare while America only returned it with a stricken look.

By now, a bemused smile had formed wide across the Russians face and he was thoroughly involved in the two sibling nations' ordeal (excuse me, ex-siblings). The look that America bore was a bit uncharacteristic, but Russia assumed he was having flashbacks from when he was just a child. After all, he imagined that as a child, America had instigated England's wrath numerous times and it was probably ingrained deep into the recesses of his mind.

"Do you even speak English?" America asked at last, proving Russian's suspicions incredibly wrong.

It wasn't that great of a comment, in fact, one would even find it childish. But in addition to the picture, the British rant, and England's increasingly enraged expression, it was impossible not to laugh. Russia's low bellow echoed throughout the hallway; not his usual menacing chuckle, but rather one of genuine amusement. Something the other two nations were surprised to hear. They turned towards the sound, and while England flushed an even deeper shade of red, America was encouraged to laugh just as hard.

 _Click._

The meeting went on as usual. The countries bickered, Germany tried to maintain control, Italy talked about food, America was always poking fun where he shouldn't, Japan was quiet, Russia was quiet, and Canada was forgotten.

Just one completely normal day.

When the World Conference was over only a few nations stayed at their designated hotels. Most were more than eager to get back to their individual countries and boarded the first flights back home. The sooner they get out of the States the better.

Unfortunately for Russia, he was the former of the two.

As if attending a meeting in America wasn't enough, he had business with the man himself. It was just the renewal of some trade contracts, but was nevertheless something that couldn't be put off. Especially when the timing was so convenient.

He appeared on America's doorstep first thing the next morning. Well, he wasn't extremely early, but early enough for the nation to answer the door while still in his pajamas and looking extremely tired. His glasses were thrown on haphazardly, the rims barely concealing the dark circles forming under his eyes. Hair stuck out every which way; it curled in unusual places around his face and still held some dampness from a late night shower. The neck of his white tee shirt hung lopsided off his shoulders while the rest of it wrinkled every which way as if mimicking America's uncomfortable sleep patterns.

"Hey Russia," he practically yawned while rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "Man, you're lucky I passed out on the couch last night. I probably wouldn't have heard you come if I didn't." He tried to laugh but his voice was still hoarse and unused, giving it a deep croaking sound. Russia only offered a smile.

"May I come in?" the Russian held up his business case. He could practically see the American cringe inwardly.

"Business? So early in the morning?" he complained, "Why don't you come in and just visit for a while?"

"I would love to," Russia lied, still wearing his signature smile, "But I have business to attend at home. You understand, no?" America rubbed the back of his head, seemingly contemplating the comment's validity. Finally, he gave a dejected sigh.

"Yeah, I guess so"

The first thing Russia noticed when he entered the American's abode was the pile of shoes that had conglomerated behind the door. It was then evident that not only did America own several pairs of shoes, but that he also took them off before officially entering the house. _Japan must be starting to have an effect on America_ , Russia thought. He knew the two were close, not because he'd ever actually seen them together, but because Japan was a prominent figure in America's photographs. In his room, right next to the windowpane, America had several portraits of the Asian nation doing various things: drawing, eating ice-cream, watching T.V. cooking…

Okay, maybe Russia did a little more snooping than just a quick glance.

"Ya'know," America's voice drew the Russian out of his thoughts, "When I said that you could come in, I meant that you could, like, _come in_." Russia looked up. America was holding an already half-drunk glass of water and gesturing to the rest of his home. Russia had barely noticed that he was still standing in the doorway.

"My apologies," he said politely as he moved into the living room, "Even though I was the one who wanted to finish quickly."

"No worries," America brushed away the subject with a swig of his drink, "I just gotta sign some papers, right? Give them here and I'll have you out of here in no time." Russia nodded and unclipped his case to reveal three stacks of official documents.

America cringed physically this time.

After the first hour or two Russia took to wandering through the house and inspecting the pictures. America didn't mind as much as Russia thought he would, rather, the western nation looked pleased that someone was appreciating his art. And they were art. It was a common thought among the nations that America's photographs contained no regard for basic artistic principle's and were, in fact, just trash. But the more Russia looked at them, the more he realized that this wasn't the case. America had either an excellent understanding of the elements of photography, or he was just incredibly lucky with a camera. Though, it wouldn't surprise Russia if it were the latter, America _did_ have a ridiculous amount of luck.

Eventually, Russia found himself wandering upstairs, but when he did so he saw something he hadn't seen in any of his last visits. At the very end of the hall where the door to the guest bedroom had been, there was, instead, a black curtain. Russia regarded it with curiosity and approached it in much the same manner. _Is America hiding something?_ He wondered as his fingers curled eagerly around the cloth. The thought of finding some dirt on his rival made his heart race. Would he find something that could hurt America? Could he blackmail him with it? Would he finally get a glimpse of America's dark side?

Would it be something to hate him for?

"Don't go in there!" the voice was so urgent that despite Russia's readiness to find and expose America's secrets, the European nation stopped in his tracks. He turned to look at America for an explanation.

"Sorry," the blond chuckled, "It's just, I have some photos developing in there."

"Photos?" Russia inquired. Sure, he knew America had been taking pictures for a long time, but this was the first time he had heard of the American developing them himself.

"Yeah," he explained, "The pres. said he was going to stop funding my 'photography campaign,'" he made quotes with his fingers, "So I kind of had to invest in a darkroom."

"Oh," Russia frowned in confusion, "You had to invest for a dark - room?" he further questioned. America blinked a few times then broke out in a cheerful laugh that reminded Russia of the chirping of birds on one summer afternoon. "What is it America?" he asked, slightly worried about the poor nation who was buckled over in fits of laughter, "Did I say something funny?"

Although the nations spent years learning each other's languages, there were still language barriers, and the thought of America spending money for someone to turn off a light switch confused the Russian and humored the American.

Everything seemed to make him smile.

"No, no, it's not you don't worry," America managed to say, another fit of laughter threatening to burst out after each word. He wiped the tears forming in his eyes and elaborated as soon as he'd calmed down, "It's the place you use to develop photos. It's a difficult process, but I've managed to get some pretty sweet shots, I think you'd like them."

"You think?"

Sure! But, hey, I'll show you some other time," America held out the signed documents, "You gotta get back, right?" Russia took the papers, fingering through them to make sure they were signed properly. When he looked back up America was beginning to climb down the steps.

"America," He called

"Hm?" America looked back towards him, "Is there something wrong with the documents?" Russia shook his head.

"I was just wondering why you used your guest room. Where will your visitors stay?"

"Oh that," America scratched his ear in thought, "Well, no one really comes over anyway and Japan's fine anywhere as long as I buy a futon." He shrugged, "What's the use of a guestroom if no one uses it? I'm saving space this way."

"What about your brother?" Russia prodded.

"What? You mean Canada? He says my country's too loud; he's the soft-spoken type, you know? Prefers it if I went up there." America chuckled, "But every time I try he seems to already have plans with France. Sometimes I feel like the forgotten brother." The mood changed. America bit his lip and shifted uncomfortably. "Ridiculous, right?" he tried to say it in a joking manner to recover from what he just let slip, to Russia no less. His smile faltered when he received no reply he cleared his throat awkwardly, "You should know how much my airports suck by now, if you don't get back soon you'll miss your flight." Then he quickly descended the steps. Russia looked down at his papers once more and couldn't help but smile fondly at them. _Ridiculous?_ He thought.

" _Net, Amerika. Ya ponimayu_ , I understand perfectly well."

Russia wasn't particularly disappointed that he didn't get to see what America was talking about. If he was disappointed in anything it was that the black curtain hid nothing but captured moments in time. After all, Russia didn't care about photography. Everything about it was expensive not to mention that it was an utterly life consuming hobby. He rested his head in his hand and looked out the window of the plane; he was flying above the clouds so the sky was a wonderful shade of cerulean. And although he couldn't see the sun from where he was sitting, it's rays reflected a brilliant golden off the clouds' uneven surfaces resulting in a scene that bore a similarity to sea foam as a wave met the shore.

It looked like something America would photograph.

Russia wasn't surprised when less than a week later he found a small package on his doorstep from the U.S. When he brought it inside to examine its contents he found that the package contained only two items: a photo and a note. At some point in time, whenever America took a photograph involving another nation it had become customary for him to send copies to the country in question. Russia wasn't entirely sure with what the other's did with theirs, but no one seemed to complain about it. He picked up both the items, holding the picture carefully so as not to leave finger prints on the front, and, as was polite, he read the note first.

 _When I saw this, I thought of you in a different light_

 _-America_

Russia's eyes shifted to examine the picture. The camera was held high but tilted down so all three nations could fit in the frame. America was in the foreground. His eyes were shut tight and he wore an enormous grin: how he ever managed to take a picture like that was a mystery to Russia. It seemed experience was the only viable explanation. Next was England in the middle ground. Arms folded and mouth open to no doubt give a disapproving rant: his eyes looked straight at the camera. If he had wanted to convey his disapproval through the photo to give a lasting sense of ornery, he had almost succeeded with flying colors. The only thing that betrayed his outward appearance was the slight flush still present on his cheeks which Russia now recognized as something different from anger and embarrassment entirely. Finally, there was Russia in the background. He had tried to cover his mouth with the back of his hand but the picture still captured his smile perfectly. He was laughing. The mouth wide, eyes shut tight, and tears forming kind of laugh. Except, while one eye was indeed shut and forming tears at its corners, the other was wide open and its gaze was directed right at America's back.

He stood with both picture and note in hand and took them over to the tool closet where he knew he would find a frame. He rummaged for a bit before pulling out a dark mahogany one that fit the photo's size and slid both item's inside; the note behind the photo. Holding it at arm's length, he checked to make sure the glass was polished so that no smudges obscured the image from a distance. Then took it upstairs to the picture room.

The picture room was just an old guest room that he had cleared out due to lack of use. Now, it worked like an art gallery. Photographs lined the walls in a well-thought-out arrangement. Each photo framed and placed at precise distances from each other, but what was probably most unique about the room was that almost every picture was one of himself taken by America. Some he knew about beforehand. He never stopped America from taking a picture of him, but when he saw one coming he would smile. Not the smile that was in the picture he just received, but the fake one; the one that hid a thousand secrets.

He was so tired of having things to hide.

So he was thankful, for the other kind of picture that populated his walls. The kind that he never knew about until they showed up on his doorstep. They often depicted him doing various tasks like working, walking, and looking at flowers. Other times they weren't meant to be of him at all and he had just gotten caught in the frame. But those ones found their way to his doorstep nonetheless. He liked how he looked when he thought no one was watching. Genuine.

Among all this there was a single photo set aside. It sat on the windowsill – this room's window was much like the one America had in his own room, which was undeniably part of the reason why Russia chose this room among all the others in his large household. It was the only photo in the room which he took himself. And it was one of America. He remembered how he had come out of the conference late one evening only to be surprised to see America still there. The young nation's back was turned to him and the bold number fifty blared at Russia who wondered for a brief moment if the bomber jacket ever became too hot to bear or if it always comforted America with its warmth. The blond had set his camera aside but it was turned just right so that its lens seemed to be set ablaze. America was leaning out the window, only slightly, to watch the sun set.

Russia remembered how the light shined golden around him.

And how it made him appear radiant.

Russia set his new photo down right beside this one and rested himself on the windowsill. He leaned against the windowpane and took in the room which was only illuminated by the fading light from outside.

Yes, America took pictures of everything…

And Russia loved them.

 _If you ever want to know what someone fears losing, watch what they photograph._

 _-Unknown_


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. PLEASE READ: Dear my loved Rusame fans, this particular chapter covers England's point of view which means it is meant to lean more towards USUK. If you do not ship both pairings I suggest you end this story with the first chapter. Thank you.

Being the object of most of America's harassment, England wasn't surprised nor was he pleased to find a package at his doorstep. _Dandy, another set of embarrassing photos to make me cringe, I hope that idiot feels good about himself,_ the thick browed country thought. He sighed and picked up the small box, setting it on the coffee table while he searched for a knife. When he came back he gently cut through the tape and dug out the small file folder inside. Breaking the seal, he delicately pulled out the pictures inside, all the while grumbling about the hassle of it all. He had half a mind to just toss the photographs without paying them much attention; it would save him from embarrassment at least. But he knew if America ever inquired about the trashed photos he would, with the expertise of a well-trained individual, pout at England's answer. It would be like kicking a puppy! England was already known as the "Black Sheep of Europe," a name that boiled his blood, he didn't need "Pup Kicker of the Americas" added to his reputation. No, he would have to keep them, but he'll be damned if he put them where any prying eye could see. He sighed and weighed the objects in his hand, contemplating their fate. There were more than a few, the stack laid heavily in his hands like the weight of a dead, useless fish. It would be a waste of time to look through them _all._ Besides, he had work to get back to, he couldn't waste the better part of the afternoon skimming over pictures he already didn't want to see.

And so it was decided, he'd shove them in his attic somewhere he would forget them for years and where they would, hopefully, get eaten by moths or some other small pest. He bent over, tapping the pictures on the coffee table to straighten them out before he locked them away forever. There was an antique wardrobe he had kept in his attic over the years, it was still filled with clothes that were no longer any use to him. He could shove the photographs into an empty pocket; they'd be forgotten there soon enough. Until the next time he reminisced old styles. England tried his best not to act his age and keep up with the times, but the fact was that he was an old country. Not as old as some—China—but definitely older than many; though, he would never openly admit it. But there were always the times when he was hit with an intense wave of nostalgia and looked through his old things. Of course, there was nothing wrong with nostalgia. It hit every nation at some point and was especially strong to former empires. It wasn't weak to reminisce of the glory days! The world had bent to his will! He dominated not only his enemies but the seven seas! The world was both familiar and strange. It was stunning, exciting; it was an adventure. The world brought to him new lands— The New World— America. England had kept a box of their old things: novels he had lent to America while he was away, some of America's old clothes, letters, portraits of them. Maybe he should keep these photographs in there. It would be nice to look at them when he came home, swaying, and somehow managing to stumble up the stairs to rummage through—

No.

Definitely not.

He cleared his throat but it failed to relieve the increasing tightness he felt in his esophagus. He was parched, that's all. It had been a while since he finished his last cup of tea; he'd have to make himself another. Be damned those who told him he couldn't survive just drinking tea. It's worked so far, except for the occasional _other_ drink. Meanwhile, he'd figure out where to put the photographs that—still weren't straight? How long had he been tapping them mindlessly on the table? With a sigh, he flipped through the pictures to find the stubborn ones that wouldn't straighten. Strangely, there weren't any. Come to think of it, the pages had a sort of deckle edge to them, which was odd considering he'd never known even his oldest books to have such crooked sides. They were so unevenly cut that England wondered whether or not the decorative borders were purposeful or just the majesty of a five year old with scissors.

"…"

America hadn't cut these himself, had he? There were so many! England flipped through the pile again; they certainly didn't look manufactured, but that could just be a farce. The U.S. had an abundance of products that were probably better off never existing in the first place. It wouldn't surprise England if deckle-edged pictures had fleeting popularity in the next year until it vanished into some unknown corner of the boisterous country. If that were the case, the British nation would have no qualms about never knowing what content the stack held; however, on the off-chance that America _had_ cut all of these himself, it would be rude to let the young nation's hard work go to waste. Dare he say, _ungentlemanly?_ England froze at that thought.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arthur," he muttered nervously in an attempt to reassure himself, "America wouldn't have the patience to cut all these _." But then again, he really was dedicated to photography._

"It's probably just a new manufacturing technique _." But if it's not then wouldn't it be safer to look through them anyway?_

"America wouldn't find out." _But what if he asks?_

"I'd just tell him they were nice and I kept them in a spot where they'd be safe." _Isn't lying ungentlemanly?_

"So is shoving them into some dusty old attic so sod off!" He jumped at the loud, reverberating sound of the grandfather clock chiming in the new hour. Bollocks, just how long had he been standing here fighting with himself? For someone who didn't want to waste time looking through photographs, he sure wasted a fair amount of it arguing with his conscious about it. It would probably easier just to give in. With a frustrated groan he plopped back onto the couch and began skimming through his recent memories, many of which he didn't want to remember in the first place. The first photos were candid shots of him arriving at the airport. England was surprised at how many photos America managed to take before he had been noticed and greeted by an unhappy version of the thick-browed nation (England almost cracked a smile at a picture depicting him scolding America for taking pictures of him). The candids continued on into the meeting. Whenever America wasn't presenting he would take snapshots of the other countries on his phone. He was awfully sneaky about it, too. Everyone knew what America was doing but no one knew exactly _when_ he managed it until the end of the month when the package filled with fresh photography arrived. And that was when he realized that something was off. Hadn't the meeting taken place _last_ month? England wasn't sure of the exact date, but he knew the meeting took up the first week of March. He checked the date on the package: April 7th. How had the photographs arrived so late without him noticing? Slowly, something dawned on him. A bothersome night suddenly made sense. France had said something about the package couple weeks ago. At the time England was too worried to notice, but he remembered the other nation had called him with a rather disconcerting tone.

" _Angleterre_ ," he had said, "Have you received your package from _Amerique_ yet?"

"France?" The island nation groaned tiredly, "You do realize it's 2:30 in the morning here?"

" _Oui,_ it is 3:30 here."

"Then what the bloody hell are you doing calling so late?" England furiously scrubbed the sleep from his eyes.

" _Mon ami,_ did you not hear my question? I asked if you had received your package from _Amerique_."

"Package? I haven't gotten any sort of package from that idiot." England heard France sigh on the other end of the line.

"I have tried calling him, but he has yet to answer."

"It's late there, maybe he's sleeping." The shorter blond retorted.

" _Angleterre,_ I think we both know that that boy doesn't sleep at night." There was a moment of silence between the two in which England may or may not have fallen back asleep.

"I will call a few others," England started at the voice talking in his ear, oh yeah, he was on the phone. "For now, try to get in contact with _Amerique,_ " France continued, "He might answer if he sees it's you."

"Hang up already." The other muttered into the receiver. He wasn't sure if France had heard him, but he was content with the familiar sound of the line going dead. After clumsily slapping his phone back down on the nightstand, he turned over to catch the adequate amount of shuteye he needed which had been so rudely interrupted. But was surprised to find himself staring blankly into the darkness of his room instead. He rolled over to a more comfortable position and found himself staring at the dim lighting of his alarm clock, watching the number on the far right hand side go up, and up, and up…ah, back to zero.

"To hell with it!" England snatched his phone off the nightstand and furiously jabbed at the dial pad, "That prat has been a thorn in my side ever since I colonized him!" He struggled to be patient with the long tones echoing through his ear. _Pick up,_ he willed, but it continued to ring and his foot began to steadily tap the wooden floor. _Pick up_ , he commanded on the next ring. Still nothing. He absentmindedly bit his thumbnail. _Pick up,_ he pleaded. England perked up when there was a slight pause.

"Heyo!"

"Hey Ameri- "

"The hero can't get to the phone right now but don't worry I'll get back to you _super-_ fast, but for now just leave me a message. See ya!" England blinked.

"Ah, the voicemail, of course," he cleared his throat, regaining his bearings just before the faithful beep sounded for him to say his piece. "Hey America," he repeated, "France called me not to long ago about some package you were supposed to send him; frankly, I don't give a damn about what you're giving him, but he also said that he hasn't been able to contact you. Are you feeling alright? You know, sickness is never a good sign for people like us. Just give me a call back soon. Bye." With that he hung up. For a moment, he thought about going back to sleep, but he didn't and instead dialed another number.

" _Ohayo,_ England- _san._ Is there something I can do for you? You don't usually call this early."

"Ah, yes, sorry for calling you while you're working, Japan, but have you heard from America lately?" England's foot began tapping another steady rhythm.

"America- _san_? I'm afraid I have not. May I ask why?"

"Well, you see, France called about this package that he was supposed to receive, apparently it's late, but he said he couldn't get in contact with America."

"Now that you mention it, the package is later than usual this month. I will try to contact him online."

"I hadn't thought of that. You're right, he might be up late playing those blasted video games. Thank you Japan, call me if you're able to get ahold of him."

"Hai."

Immediately after England disconnected with Japan he dialed another number.

"Ja? Beilschmidt speaking."

"Germany, my apologies for calling at this hour but I must speak with Prussia." A deep sigh came from the other end.

"What has he done this time?"

"He hasn't done anything Germany. I just need to talk to him." England heard the shuffling of papers and a faint scraping of a chair. He figured Germany had been working late, he had often been labeled as a workaholic, but that didn't stop England from feeling a pain of guilt from disturbing him over something like this. What in the world was America doing falling out of contact like that? Every nation knows to keep themselves contactable at _any_ time in case of emergencies so, generally, falling off the face of the planet was a bad sign. Did America not get the memo? Was he out of the loop somehow? _God he's so stupid,_ England fumed to himself. But a soft tap coming through the phone was enough to draw his attention back to the task at hand. Faintly, he could hear the German brothers speak in their native language.

"Get up. You have a phone call."

"Hnng, West, it's four in the morning, leave me alone."

"Nein, it sounds important." There was a short silence followed by a frustrated groan which England presumed to come from the older German.

"At least tell me who it is."

"England."

"Oh it's just England? He can shove it up his ass then! I'm tired!" England heard a sigh come from the younger German this time. After a few more sounds, he was speaking to someone again.

"Mein bruder is rather reluctant to get up. Can I take a message for him instead?"

"Ah, well, yes. I should've asked you first to begin with anyway, but have you heard from America?"

"America _?"_ Germany questioned a little louder than his usual tone. No doubt he was trying to peak his brother's interest. Or worry. Either one would probably drag the albino out of bed.

"Yes, it seems he's been out of contact recently. You see France called and-," England was cut off before he could recite his story.

"Out of contact, huh? Do you think something could have happened?" The German's volume crescendoed through his sentence.

"Well, I don't know. That's why I'm trying to get in contact with him. I already asked Japan so I figured I'd call you and your brother since-,"

"—since mein bruder and America are close. Ja, I understand. Unfortunately, I haven't heard from him since the meeting at the beginning of the month. Gilbert might know something but it seems you will have to call tomorrow."

"Now wait just a minute there, West," England heard the other German chirp up in the background, "I can't go back to sleep now. Hand the phone over here; this is your fault for waking me up." England could've swore he heard Prussia tell Germany to hand _him_ the phone. As in, Germany should civilly walk towards him and give it over, and that's what he had expected to hear. But what he actually heard sounded more like a stampeding elephant charging directly at the receiver, and he was mildly concerned when he heard an "oof" followed by a decently loud thump.

"Now what's this I hear about _Amerika?_ Has he really been out of contact?"

"Yes Prussia, as far as I know," England answered readily, ignoring—whatever it was he heard. The less questions he asked the faster he could find America. "Have you heard from him?"

"Not since March. How long has he been M.I.A.?"

"I don't know, ask France. He's the one who brought this to my attention and ruined a perfectly good night's sleep." England grumbled. Secretly, he was glad someone noticed. _Bloody hell!_ He almost gasped aloud. How long _had_ America been missing _?_ How long had it taken the world to notice that its loudest voice had gone silent? "But," he continued, voice quavering only slightly "All countries were present during the meeting this month."

"Was that the last time anyone heard from him?"

"As far as I know, yes."

"Have you tried contacting any of the countries on his side of the world?"

"Well, no."

"Alright, I'll refer you to my man Cuba. He's got a bit of a beef with America so he might be reluctant to help, but at least he's closer to the guy. For now, I'll check Alfred's social media sites and see when the last time he posted anything was."

"Alright, thank you." England hung up but before he could dial the next contact he noticed Japan had messaged him. It was a disappointing message, but it ended with a cute emoticon of a crying cat. Japan was fond of those.

" _He's not online."_

"Damnit!" England almost threw his phone across the room to watch it in splendor as it shattered into a million pieces before he remembered he needed it. Punching in a few blurry numbers, he waited for Cuba to pick up.

"Dime?"

"Cuba? This is England, I'm calling to ask about-," England was more than willing to spill his story quickly and find America, but it didn't seem like fate was willing to comply.

"England _?_ Why are you calling me?"

"I was just about to answer that!" he heaved a sigh, "I'm calling to ask about America."

"The douchebag or the continent?"

"The United States!" another heavy sigh escaped his lips. How long would he have to dance around until he got a straight answer from _anyone_? At least Japan was compliant. Maybe a more straightforward approach would get things moving faster; if America really was, as Prussia put it, MIA, then every second counted. "Look, he's been out of contact for a while and I—I, well," he hesitated, "I'm worried about him." He'd deny ever saying this if it were to be brought to attention. Hell, he never should have said it in the first place, but now wasn't the time to keep up with his façade. "Has anything happened in America? Anything bad?" The humming of the phone droned on in England's ear for a minute. He wished the country would just give him an answer so they could be done with it. Even if it were negative—he dreaded the thought. Strangely, despite his worry, he managed to wait patiently. And patience wasn't something he was usually good at.

"Nothing," England's heart shrank, "But if something happened I'm not the one you should be asking. Have you already tried Canada?"

"Bloody hell!" the blond nation swore without restraint into the receiver, "I could've just called him to begin with!"

"Why am I not surprised you forgot? Well good luck and don't you dare tell that bastard America that I helped you find his sorry ass." The line went dead quickly. As soon as it did, the phone buzzed in England's hand. It was another message, this time from Prussia.

" _He hasn't uploaded anything in the last three weeks. Does Cuba know anything?"_

England quickly replied with a simple "No" and began to dial Canada's number, but before he could press the call he received a rather disturbing thought from the Prussian.

" _Mein gott, has really no one contacted Amerika for a_ _ **month**_ _?"_

The phone buzzed again. A message from France this time.

" _Neither le petite Lituane nor Estonie have contacted him."_

Followed by another:

" _Denmark says his package is late as well. Has Amerique not contacted anyone? What will we do Angleterre?"_

England ignored both these messages and the growing tightness he felt in his gut. He hit the call button, waiting rather impatiently for Canada to pick up.

"Hello?"

"Canada, thank God you're awake. Tell me, have you heard from America? Is he alright? He's not answering anyone."

"England? Slow down, I can't understand you."

"I—I'm sorry Canada, I'm just a little worked up," England inhaled deeply, though his hands refused to quit their trembling, "France called and he was trying to get in contact with America but he couldn't so he asked me to. I wasn't able to either so I called a few people and they can't get in touch either. Canada, I think the last time anyone has seen him was the last day of the meeting."

"You—you really can't get in touch with Al?"

"No I can't, I was hoping you've at least heard from him recently." There was some silence on the other end, but it didn't last long. England secretly thanked Mother Earth for letting Canada's obedience carry on into his adulthood.

"He contacted me that weekend; he wanted me to see something," Canada's voice trembled as he continued, "I said I couldn't and that was the last time I heard anything."

"Three weeks ago?" England questioned.

"Three weeks ago." Canada confirmed.

"Could you—?"

"I'm already on it, England. I'll be at his place by tomorrow afternoon, I'll call you then."

"Thank you Canada. I really appreciate this."

"There's one more thing," England could hear the Canadians hesitation.

"Go on," he prodded. At this point, any information regarding America was relevant.

"Russia had a business meeting with Al the day he called me. If no one's seen Al since the meeting then, well, that would make Russia the last person to actually _see_ Al. You know?"

"Russia?" England gulped; man he felt nauseous. "Are you positive?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you, I'll be sure to give him a call as well." England didn't wait to hear Canada's reply; his nausea was quickly becoming something more fiery and violent. He messaged the others about Canada's news. Prussia replied immediately:

" _I felt better when he was just missing."_

 _Not comforting,_ England thought after quickly scanning the text. The phone vibrated in his hand again, it was France.

" _Angleterre, you don't think…?"_

Also, not comforting. England's rational thinking was slipping away from him. All he wanted at the moment was to grab the first plane ticket to Moscow, demand answers, then beat the Russian nation within an inch of his life. The blond nation knew that, realistically, he could never manage that. Not in this day in age, anyway. But he could at least land one hell of a punch! In trade for his life he could see the Russian bleed. That actually didn't sound too bad right about now. England furiously tapped at his keyboard.

" _I don't know what to think, but we're about to find out."_

He barely had time to read the reply before dialing the next number.

" _Don't do anything rash. Russie might not be guilty."_

"For his sake he better not be guilty," England muttered under his breath. Each ring seemed longer this time. They droned on as if the vibrations were taking place over a layer of dark, thick molasses. Russia was taking longer to answer his phone than the others, and England was sure he was doing it just to piss him off. Finally, the ringing faltered.

"Allo?" answered an all too familiar voice.

"Russia," England seethed between his clenched teeth, "What happened during your last ' _business'_ meeting with America?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"Just answer the question!"

"England," Russia's tone took on something that England could only describe as sounding sickly sweet; like the toxic oleander bud, it screamed caution to anyone who wasn't a complete idiot. "You call and raise me before the sun then demand personal information without first explaining why. I'm no expert in conduct like you, but I believe that this is very rude, _da_?"

"Fine, since you're so eager to know, I'll tell you why," ignoring the not-so-underlying insult in Russia's statement, England continued to allow his fury work his mouth, "Not anyone has been able to get in touch with America since the fifth, the same day _you_ met with him. Now, I'm no expert in sleuthing. As you so _kindly_ pointed out, my expertise is in manners, but I do believe that makes you the last to hear from America and it also puts you in a _very_ bad position. A-are you _laughing?_ " Sure enough, the low bellow that was coming from the other line was laughter. It wasn't menacing, rather, it was the type of laughter that made a child's ears turn red as the adults laughed at its naivety. Russia was laughing at _him._

If England was furious before, he was livid now. For all he cared, that laugh was a confession to murder, but before he could verbally claim his accusations in the form of a vicious rant, the "perpetrator" caught his attention.

"You might be right that I'm the last one who's heard of him," the Russian nation cooed maliciously, "But you are wrong about one thing."

"What's that?" England snapped.

"March fifth is not the last time I heard from America. He sent me a package the following week, after I left."

"You mean—,"

" _Da,_ I was here, in Moscow. Would you like to check my passport?" England gulped, all anger instantly dissipating.

"N-no that won't be necessary. I, um, I do believe I owe you an apology."

"You do. But I am feeling generous so I'll let this go. You were just worried about him."

"Y-yeah."

"I am familiar with the feeling." The line went dead after that and England was left wondering not only where America was, but also what Russia meant by that.

England wasn't able to sleep for the rest of the night. He contacted the others, updating them on Russia's innocence—which relieved them immensely. With no other leads to America's whereabouts he took up the job of waiting not-so-patiently for Canada to bring news. And tried desperately not to think about whether or not that news would be good or bad. The sun crawled at a snail's pace over the horizon without so much as a glance given by the blonde nation ceaselessly pacing the length of his room. It was when his legs ached from both the constant use and lack of rest and his eyes were bloodshot from worry that he received a call from a _very_ familiar number. His hands reacted faster than his mind and he found the phone already to his ear before he could come up with the words to say.

"Yo, Britain!" came an equally familiar voice, "Mattie came down and said you've been trying to get ahold of me. Well, the world has actually. Dude, you should see my inbox; everyone and their mother decided to call me. Hell, even Belarus gave me a ring. She's always been super creepy ya'know? But I knew she cared."

"She said she hoped you had killed yourself." Canada commented from the background.

"That's just how she is. Anyway, Britain, what's up?" It's needless to say that, after an expectant pause, that idiot received an earful.

Before England knew it, he had gone through nearly the entire pile; his reminiscing must've put him on autopilot. Maybe he should do it more often. There were only a few photos left, but England felt a morbid sense of embarrassment when he realized what they were. The first one was a very bright picture of England turning around the corner. It had obviously caught him by surprise. Even a passerby taking a glance at the photo could come to the same conclusion just by looking at England's wide, open eyes taking in all that extra light in the span of a second. His eyes hurt thinking about it. And they hurt more when he looked at the next one. Someday he'd break the flash on that camera. It was a promise.

His face flushed when he turned to the next photo. It could either be a terrific picture, or a terrible one depending on who was looking at it. Like usual, England was the latter. How was it that he was described previously? Ah, yes, a potato. Indeed, England looked like a potato, and not a very handsome one at that. He never before considered himself to look remotely similar to the plain vegetable, but the photograph he was holding proved that the two could have been long lost siblings. Then again, it could be the person he was standing next to who brought out the worst of his looks. Damn those Americans, with their perfect hair and dental insurance. He quickly slammed that one face down on the table; he'd burn it later. Finally, he turned to the last picture. There were three of them in this one with Russia as the addition. The large nation was laughing and the genuineness of it made England smile a little himself. He knew Russia had a soft side, even if it was usually buried under a hundred feet of snow and ice. It's amazing that America's antics actually managed to lighten up the isolated country enough to capture it. Speaking of America, it was a good picture of him too. Even if the blond was grinning ear to ear like a maniac. At least he looked happy; unlike the Brit. England didn't even have to look at his own image to know that he was no doubt wearing a displeased expression, but what he didn't expect was the very prominent red hue that appeared on his cheeks.

"My God. I'm blushing!" he pulled the picture closer to him, examining his own expression for an answer. What had caused his emotions to act so traitorously? Had America seen this? England quickly checked the box for a letter or a note or _something_. If the unruly American had noticed he certainly wouldn't waste a heartbeat to mock the poor island nation about it. The package turned up empty which relieved England immensely. America, as oblivious as ever. It was almost endearing. England gave the picture in his hand a fond look. America certainly did look happy, he thought.

How long had it been since they last talked? He wondered.

Without another word, England put the photographs away, located the nearest telephone, and dialed an all too familiar number. It rang once, twice—.

"Hello?"

"It's just me America. You don't have to be formal; I'm not calling about business."

"I'd hang up on you if you were. It's too early for that."

"Isn't it nearly noon there?"

"Yeah, nearly noon and I'm only on my third cup of coffee. I'm tellin' ya', it's too early."

"Well maybe if you started actually sleeping during the night you wouldn't need to drown yourself in so much caffeine."

"Just because I don't go to bed at six like you, old man."

"I do _not_ go to bed at six! And I'm not old!"

"Whatever you say, Britain. Anyway, if you're not calling about business, why did you call? It's not often you ring me up, much less just for a chat."

"Well—I," England hesitated. Really, he just wanted to speak with America, but there was no way he was going to say that. He should've at least thought up an excuse before he called.

"Are you sure you don't need anything?" America's voice took on a more concerned tone, "Don't be afraid to ask if it's money. Whatever the amount, I can talk to the boss and we could probably manage to scrape up the sum by next wee—,"

"I want to visit." England blurted out.

"Huh?"

"Next week, I want to come visit." There was a momentary silence on the other line before England heard muffled laughter. "What?" he snapped.

"Sorry, sorry, it's just ironic."

"I'm surprised you know the meaning of that word," England muttered bitterly, "Is it really that much of a surprise that _I_ want to go to the States?"

"No, it's not that! It's just, I was literally getting of the phone with Russia when you called. He said the same thing."

"Russia did?" England was taken by surprise at the news. With a glance back at the pile of photographs he remembered Russia's expression along with the cryptic words the mysterious nation said during the phone fiasco. The pieces were starting to fit into place. And England wasn't so sure he was comfortable with it. In fact, it was nerve-racking.

"Yeah." America confirmed.

"You're not going to put him before me, are you?" England barely registered how immature that had sounded.

"Well, I can't exactly cancel on him."

"This is Russia we're talking about." In all reality, Russia wouldn't benefit from hurting America. Not in the superpower's own home and certainly not when he had such close allies.

"Cold war's over, Britain. Besides, in case you haven't noticed, our countries need this."

"And we don't?" Dear Lord what was he saying?

"What are you talking about? Last I checked we were on pretty good terms. Did something happen that I don't know about?"

"I wasn't talking about our countries America, I was talking about us." Did he really just say that?

"Oh." There was silence. It was the uncomfortable kind that only occurred during the reminiscence of grim memories. Or perhaps it was just the aftereffects of England's uncharacteristic outburst. The island nation wasn't sure. "Russia is only staying a couple days," America started, "If you want, you can come over afterwards."

"Yes, I think that'll work just fine."

"Oh and I got rid of my guest room so you're sleeping on the couch."

"What? What happened to the rest of your house, then? Don't tell me you burned it to the ground."

"None of the other rooms are clean enough to fit your stuck-up standards."

"I am _not_ stuck up!" England defended.

"Oh yeah? Then why do you end up cleaning my house every time you're over?"

"Well maybe if you didn't live in such a pigsty—,"

"See? What did I tell you? You're stuck up."

"Honestly, why do I even try with you?" England fumed in response, "Just forget I ever called!" With a huff he hung up on the ungrateful American. "He can drown in his piles of trash for all I care!" the blond nation had half a mind to call back and give the younger a lesson about respecting his elders. But there was a box full of photography that needed attention.

And England really wasn't _that_ old.

"I suppose there isn't any way of getting around it," England heaved a sigh as he lifted the box up into his arms, "I'll have to put these with the others." Trudging up the stairs, he wondered what he would do when he ran out of room. Sure, they were just easily hidden boxes for now, but nations were immortal beings. If America was going to keep this hobby of his, England would soon be forced to rent out a storage space just to have enough room to accommodate the mountains of snapshots the other would send him.

The box dropped to the floor with a loud _thunk_ at the foot of England's bed who held little regard for the disarray of the contents inside. In fact, he was more than willing to kick it under, like the others, and never think of it again. And yet he paused. The irksome open box revealed that on the top of the stack was that photo of the three of them. It was a good picture and, England noted, the levels were used well. Not to mention the fact that America just looked so _goddamn happy._ How the hell was the bloke able to take such a good picture with his eyes closed? England knew from experience that his own photography skills lacked significantly. What was it America had said? "You don't see, you feel", or something of the sort, England never got it.

Though, what England lacked for in the arts he made up for in the divine skill of stalling.

 _It wouldn't hurt to have just one out,_ he thought, picking up the photograph, _It would stay in here, and hardly anyone would notice it._ He pondered for a surprisingly short amount of time before he came to his conclusion: it was his house; he'd do whatever the hell he wanted. As if it were an act of defiance, he leaned the picture against the lamp on his nightstand and admired his accomplishment until a buzzing in his pocket made him turn away. It was a text.

 _See ya next week, Iggy._

England couldn't help but smile. After once again pocketing the device, he made his way downstairs to make himself a that cup of tea he had almost forgotten about.

He never picked up the photo again; though, if he had, he might've seen the all too familiar hand-writing on the back.

" _More truths can be seen in a single, frozen second than can be said in a thousand lifetimes."_

When England met America at the airport the following week, the younger nation's finger's were all but covered in Band-Aids.

"Papercuts," he had said. Papercuts.


End file.
